


stranger's mourning

by LadyDorian



Series: Echoes [4]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Ficlet, M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-03 02:46:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4083703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDorian/pseuds/LadyDorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d woken up in a seedy motel with a sore ass and the taste of cock on his tongue, but unlike memories of mornings past, the man sleeping beside him was one he knew all too well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stranger's mourning

He blamed the sunlight for his disorientation. Whatever time of day it was, it was too goddamn bright, rays piercing the cheap curtains and wedging their way between the cracks of his fingers.

_Too late_ , he thought; his hands were fast, but not lightspeed.

He blinked and squirmed onto his side, wading through a puddle of throbs and aches in his search for the alarm clock. The glare made the display almost unreadable, the gleaming bottles behind it only adding to the challenge, but if he squinted hard enough, he could piece the digits together: 8:02. Far too fucking early to be this bright.

Christ, hadn’t it just been winter a few weeks ago? Was he even still in Nebraska? Who the hell puts up patterned wallpaper anymore? And why was the other bed so tidy, like it had barely been used?

How much did he have to drink last night?

He knew the answers, of course, it just took a bit of jostling to knock them loose: a shifting on the mattress behind him, a gentle tug of the sheets, warm breath at his back beckoning him to turn around.

It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d woken up in a seedy motel with a sore ass and the taste of cock on his tongue, but unlike memories of mornings past, the man sleeping beside him was one he knew all too well.

His hair fell in waves over his forehead, his plump cheek squished up against the pillow, its dusty white fabric damp with drool from lips that refused to stay shut. The light didn’t appear to bother him, though his eyelids twitched intermittently, staving off the inevitable.

He swore he could see that face in his sleep sometimes, down to the last detail. Even that little mole on his neck he loved to kiss so much.

Wrench smiled, reaching out and stroking his beard, from his cheek to the edge of his jaw. Numbers stirred, skin prickling and tongue lazily sliding over his lips before he brought his hand up to smack Wrench’s aside. He mumbled something with his face half-buried in the pillow, his fingers finding Wrench’s wrist again and pulling.

It was an act that had evolved beyond any explanation, and Wrench laughed softly as he grasped Numbers’ waist, tugging him closer until the letters decorating his chest fell out of focus, until the boundaries disappeared and nothing was left but Numbers—his skin and his lips and his body and his heartbeat—everything melting into him. Everything as it should be.

And at 8AM, on a Wednesday in March, inside a shitty motel room halfway to Billings, Wrench held his partner in his arms until even the sun seemed to fade away.


End file.
